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Tonio Kröger
a loose adaptation of a novella by Thomas Mann

Tonio Kröger,

the son of Consul Kröger,
a Lübeck merchant,

and an exotic mother,

had surrendered wholly to the power

which seemed to him the most elevated on earth:

the power of the intellect,
of the word,

that smilingly towers over the unconscious and mute life.

But very early on he had to learn

that with the torture and haughtiness of knowledge

came solitude,

because he couldn't bear to be among the harmless

with their cheery and dumb minds.

He left his native town

and spent part of his time in the South.

From its sun he hoped
for a more luxurious ripening of his art.

And perhaps his mother's blood drew him there.

But since his heart was dead and without love,

very soon he had strange adventures.

He had hardly arrived,
already it was incredibly sweet,

already,
disregarding all the moral codes of the North,

he succumbed to the anonymous briberies

that arrived out of thin air,

the air invading him from all sides.

And only rarely he felt a weak

nostalgic yearning for his childhood

and for a voluptiousness of the soul

which he'd formerly possessed

and which he was unable to recover
in all his pleasures.

Don Carlos.

I've read something wonderful,
something splendid.

You must read it too, Hans.
Don Carlos by Schiller.

I can lend it to you,
if you like.

No thanks, Tonio,
that's not for me.

I'll stick to my books about horses,
you know.

They have great illustrations,
I'm telling you.

I'll show them to you
when you visit me.

Instantaneous photography: horses
gallopping, trotting and jumping,

in every position you can't see in reality
because it happens so fast.

In every position?
That must be fine.

As to Don Carlos,
it's beyond anything.

There are passages so beautiful,
so moving, they startle you.

Like an explosion.

An explosion? Why?

For instance, the moment when

the King wept
because the Marquis betrayed him.

But the Marquis did it only
out of love for the Prince, you see?

He sacrificed himself for the Prince.

And then everyone learns
that the King has been weeping.

He's weeping?
The King weeping?

All the courtiers are very upset
and you're deeply moved.

But you understand so well
why he's been weeping.

And I pity him more
than the Prince and the Marquis put together.

He's always alone,
without love.

He thinks he's found a friend
and that friend betrays him.

How does he betray him, Tonio?

Well, all the letters to Brabant and Flanders ...

Here's Erwin Jimmerthal.
Good day.

Good day, Jimmerthal. I'm taking a walk with Kröger.
I have riding lessons. Thank you.

Tomorrow we're having our next lesson, Hans.

Great. I'll get the leather gaiters now
because I got top marks in exercise class.

- I don't suppose you're having riding lessons, Kröger?
- No.

You should ask your father
to let you take riding lesson too, Kröger.

I call you Kröger because your first name sounds so silly,
I'm sorry but I don't like it.

"Tonio", what kind of a name is that?

But it's not your fault, of course.

They probably gave you that name
because it sounds foreign and unique.

Yes, it's a ridiculous name.

By God, I'd rather be called Hans or Erwin,
like you.

But I'm named after my mother's brother, Antonio.

Because my mother is from the South.

Why did Hans call him "Tonio"
when we were alone

and felt ashamed about it
as soon as we had company.

Tonio felt alone again.

He remembered King Philipp.

The King has been weeping.

Bye bye. Adieu, Jimmerthal.
- See you tomorrow.

I like Jimmerthal.

Good day.

Good day, Hans Hansen
with that nice shock of hair.

Still top of the class?
Remember me to your parents.

I will.

Everybody loved Hans.

Hans Hansen was an excellent pupil

and besides a handsome lad
who rode, swam and performed his gymnastics like a hero.

If I could only be like him!

He felt an envious burning longing in his breast.

Because Hans had such blue eyes and lived
in such order and happy union with the world.

It's splendid of you
to see me home.

I'm in no hurry to get home.

My report card is pretty bad again.

That's your fault.
You could do much better.

But you prefer writing poems
to your homework.

I have to go in now.

So, adieu.

Next time I'll see YOU home.
I promise.

- Bye.
- Bye.

By the way, I'll read Don Carlos very soon.

The bit about the weeping King
must be great.

Tonio?

Good day, father.

It's pitiful.

Yessir, the report marks are pitiful.

Since you're not at all stupid.

But you prefer to dream
rather than learn.

Your teachers are complaining about you.

Look at Hans Hansen.

as he's your friend,

why don't you follow his example?

What's to become of you

if you lack all sense of right and order in life?

Good day, mama.

I can tell by looking at you, my heart:

As usual your report card wasn't good.

Was your father very angry?

I don't know.

I think he felt sad.

I don't.

It's perfectly natural for a pupil
to find his teacher ridiculous,

and to write poems.

Tonio loved his dark and fiery mother
who played the piano and the lute so well.

And he was glad
that his report cards didn't bother her.

However, he thought that his father's wrath

- that careful, well-dressed man
with the field flower in his buttonhole -

was a more dignified and respectable attitude.

In fact, he wholly agreed with him,

despite his scoldings.

After all, we're not gypsies
living in a green wagon.

[Verdi: Don Carlos act 4]

# Ella giammai m' amò!

# No, quel cor chiuso è a me,

# amor per me non ha!

# per me non ha!

[Verdi: La Forza del Destino]
# La vergine degli angeli

# Mi copra del suo manto

# E me protegga vigile

# Di dio l'angelo santo

# La vergine degli angeli

# Mi copra del suo manto

# E me protegga vigile

# Di dio l'angelo santo

Faint,

yearning memories ...

the blond Inge ...

Dr. Holm's daughter
who lived in Lübeck on Market Square,

opposite the tall Gothic fountain
with its manifold spires.

Destroyed peace of mind ...

shivering ...

blissful self-denial ...

which he understood later, had been love.

Ladies and gentlemen,
attention!

J'ai l'honneur
de me vous présenter.

Mon nom est Knaack.

Dancing-master Knaack came once a week
from Hamburg

to give the children of Lübeck's best families
lessons in dancing and etiquette.

He tried very hard to speak German badly,

that sounded more elegant,

and brought him the admiration of the ladies.

What an insufferable ape,

Tonio thought,

especially when he noticed

how absorbed Inge followed
M. Knaacks demonstrations.

Surture

Une des ...
Now another example

Let's take a chair.

One doesn't pick it up at the leg, non!

Nor drag it across the floor, non!

One elegantly holds the back

and without a sound one sets it

down.

Comme ça. S'il vous plaît.

Bravo!

Très bon. Choix des dames.

Ladies' choice.

Not Inge

but Magdalena Vermehren came up to him
at the ladies' choice.

Often, she looked at him from afar

with lowered head.

She knew that he wrote poems.

She would often fall down during the dancing.

Wouldn't you like to show me your poems, Tonio?

I'd love to read them.

I could let you read them,

but what's the use?

I think it's wonderful that you write poems.

Oh! Excuse me!

But ladies, this is impossible!

This is ...
c'est impossible!

Return to your positions.

Gentlemen!

A waltz.

A waltz means gracefulness,

charm and poise.

The movements must be precise

and the verve - impeccable.

What is a waltz, sir?

- Gracefulness, M. Knaack.
- Bon, bon, very good.

And now your friend, Mr. Hansen:
what is a waltz?

Charm and poise, Mr. Knaack.
- Très bon.

And now your friend, Kröger.

Tonio, n'est-ce pas?

If I'm not mistaken.

And you, my pretty demoiselles,
you've all understood? Vous avez compris?

Who of you will be so kind
and give me proof?

You're shy? Then I'll pick one myself,
with blond hair and blue eyes.

Une petite fée des eaux.
You, Miss Inge.

Thank you.

Position pour quadrille.

Compliment.

Tour de mains.

I love you, dear sweet Inge...

he told himself.

and put into these words
all the pain he felt

because she was so absorbed by the dance
and didn't pay attention to him.

He remembered a beautiful poem by Storm:

"I want to sleep,"

"but you must dance"

He was tortured by the humiliating contradiction

that one had to dance

while one loved.

M. Kröger!

But you're among the ladies!

Everybody understood but you.

Step back, Miss Kröger.

En arrière! Filons!
Get back, back!

- I want a big piece.
- A green one.

She too had laughed at him.

Like the others.

Yet, she should have come to him.

She must have noticed
that he'd left.

Should have noticed the way he felt.

Should have secretly followed him,

if only out of pity,

put her hand on his shoulder and say:

"Come in and join us. Be happy.
I love you."

And he listened for her steps
and waited in frantic suspense.

But she didn't come at all.

Things like that never happen on earth.

And although he felt lonely, excluded
and without hope,

he felt happy,

because at the time, his heart was alive.

Happiness, he told himself,

doesn't mean to be loved.

Happiness means to love,

and perhaps to capture little chimerical moments,
getting closer to the beloved object.

May I help you?

Yes please.

Kröger!

Kröger!

Morning, Adalbert Prantl.

Good day, colleague.
[Bavarian accent]

Say, are you out of your mind?

I? Why?

Come up first,
or you'll freeze to death.

When a man has been in Italy
at this time of the year,

and without any obligation comes back

to our rotten miserable freezing climate,

that man would be a fool, Kröger,

a total fool.

I was hoping I'd be able to work better here.

What? Here!
You're out of your mind.

Guess what I've been doing
for the last five days?

What?

I too was hoping I'd be able to work,

it's too damn cold,

but I can already feel the South Wind coming soon,
I'm very sensitive about that.

Early spring is already tickling my blood
and some other part.

It's indecent even,
and I'm not even mentioning the carnival.

How can one work under such conditions?

Or write? Inspiration never comes.

Not one little punchline.

Nothing at all.

Except for some kitsch
which is far too sensitive, sentimental.

By the way,

did you write to Frau Rosskoser
that she should heat the rooms for you?

No, I left in a hurry,
I wasn't able to arrange it.

That was imprudent, Mr. Poet,
very imprudent.

And the fellow wants to educate mankind.

He even has talent.

Now that I think of it,

my fine friend,

where is the story you promised me?

I see, for your Simplicissimus,
yes, I have it here.

A little ... let's call in a novella.
- Bravo.

Thank you, my dear.
- You're welcome.

Well, it isn't exactly cozy in here.

It's as cold in this establishment of hers

as in the ??? chamber at the Epiphany feast.

Am I disturbing?

Tonio Kröger!

Lisaveta Ivanovna.

I'm about to transform myself.

Take off your coat.

Have a seat somewhere,
somehow.

You're going to the carnival?

We're having our annual artists' ball.

But there's plenty of time.

I'll make you some tea.

What drove you back to our winter?

Were you suddenly

bored with Italy?

Do you know the land where the lemon trees bloom?

Velvet-blue sky, hot wine
and sweet sensuality?

All that bellezza started to get on my nerves.

Why don't you admit

that you were also a bit homesick,
little father?

Welcome to Munich.

Thank you.

Perhaps I also felt repentance.

A hangover.

And disgust.
I became sentimental.

I think I developed feelings.

What a terrible thought: feelings!

That's it, dear Lisaveta.

Feelings are a death-trap

for a writer.

The artist is finished

once he becomes human

and develops feelings.

Do you want me to say "my poor Tonio"?

Shall I pity your questionable gift
for describing things exactly as they are?

I mean,

being able to write.

Questionable?

That's the right word.

It describes the suspicion

my honourable ancestors
would have had about all jugglers.

About all artists

who came to their homes.

Do you take rum?

No, thanks.

You ought to be ashamed

to have constant doubts about your profession.

Don't talk to me about professions.

Literature isn't a profession at all.

It's a curse.

I'm just a silly woman who paints

and if I have anything at all to tell you,

then it wouldn't be anything new
but only a ...

a reminder of the things ...

you know perfectly well yourself.

I know very well how difficult it is

to depict humanity
without having any part in it.

Being forced to write

while one wants to live.

I wonder if an artist

can be a man at all?

Let's ask the woman.

It seems to me we artists share the fate
of those castrato singers of the Popes.

Our voice is incredibly beautiful, but ...

Just spill it out, Tonio Kröger.

You've been abroad long enough.

Don't be annoyed
if I turn myself into a clown now.

It's about time.

I must make a confession,
Lisaveta.

I've never told this to anybody.

I love life.

Despite everything.

I mean,

life as eternal opposite
between the Mind and Art.

Life in all its seductive

banality.

Have pity, little father.

Watch out, Batushka.

There's fresh paint.

I'm fed up with the company of demons,
goblins and ghosts.

I want to find a friend.

Who's a human being.

Up to now,
I've only had friends among artists,

among my own kind.

Have you finished your confession, Tonio Kröger?

Almost.

But I won't say anything further.

It's enough anyway.

Do you expect an answer at all?

Do you have one?

I think I have.

I've listened to you carefully.

You're nothing but a bourgeois
who's been led astray,

Tonio Kröger.

A bourgeois?

You think so?

A bourgeois who's lost his way.

Well, it's obvious.

Now you can enjoy your ball.

Wouldn't you like to join us, after all?

Meet the demons, goblins, ghosts?

Or as you put it: the artists?

I can turn you into a harlequin in no time.

I thank you kindly.

You've already turned me into a bourgeois.

As a last resort,
and in pure self-defense,

as you must admit.

Of course I admit.

But I didn't mean you,
you should have ...

Don't come any closer.

I'm no longer the same.

Lock the door
and leave the key under the mat.

Look at this!

That's Kröger.

The poet.

Who doesn't feel any indecent tickling.

Very well.

I'm leaving,
but only because of the South Wind.

And because that one isn't used to it.

- Au revoir.
- Au revoir.

I must have been thinking for too long

about what I might have forgotten to tell you.

And you fell asleep over it.

Well ...

I wasn't very nice to you yesterday,
wasn't I?

I'm bad company right now.

I'd better keep on travelling.

Travelling? When?

Very soon. Even today.

Have you decided in which direction you'll go?

To Denmark.

Denmark?

Yes. I think it'll do me good.

By pure chance I've never been there,
even though it was very close

to my hometown.

I'd like to see the Baltic again,
hear some familiar names.

I'll stand on the terrace of Kronborg

where the ghost appeared to Hamlet,

bringing despair and death.

How will you travel, Tonio?

I mean,

which route will you take?

The usual, dear Lisaveta.

You know it, don't you?

I'll return after 13 years
to my point of departure.

It may turn out to be amusing,
don't you think?

I hope you're not leaving

because I called you a bourgeois who's lost his way.

Did you know

how close you came to the truth?

My father was like the people up North,
considerate, thorough, correct.

My mother was of vaguely exotic blood,
naive

and at the same time careless.

I'm the result.

A bourgeois
who got lost in the Arts.

An artist with a troubled conscience.

We broke off with our talk at the troubled conscience.

Must I have one with you too?

Go now, Batushka.

Go in peace.

My compliments to the blondes
and the blue-eyed.

The charming and the ordinary.

And if ...

I said "if", Tonio Kröger,
if you ever feel like it,

then write to me.

All aboard!

I thank you, Lisaveta.

For what?

That you're always willing to listen.

Listen?

"City Hotel Lübeck"

Good evening.

- Sir?
- Good day.

I'd like a room.

A room?

One moment.

Excuse me, Mr. Seehase.

A single gentleman,

entirely without luggage.

He looks familiar.

Don't you have any luggage, sir?
- Luggage?

It'll be brought from the station.

In that case ...

No. 7.
- No. 7, yessir.

Allow me.

Please follow me, sir.

The luggage will be brought later.

Anything else, sir?
- No.

The register.

Name, first name,

profession.

Is this the town he left 13 years ago

with nothing but contempt in his heart?

Sometimes during those 13 years he dreamed

that he was home again,
in that strangely dignified

and all too familiar conglomeration of gables,

towers and drafty squares.

Well,

the present reality is no different.

It's exactly like one of those dream webs

about which one wonders

if it's an illusion

or reality.

Necessarily and convinced

one decides on the latter,

only to wake up in the end.

But hush!

Don't speak!

No more words!

"Public Library"

Good day, sir, I'm a stranger
visiting the city.

So this is the public library.

- May I look around?
- Certainly.

Everyone is free to do so.

Please look around.

Would you like a catalogue?

No thank you, I'll find my way.

These are very beautiful rooms.

Has the Public Library been here long?

Well, about a decade.

Even longer.

This house used to be owned
by a family of this town.

The family of Consul Kröger.

Amazing.

Then it was sold,

after the death of the old Consul.

The widow left town
and sold the house.

Now we've assembled here
almost 20.000 books.

Very interesting.

Thank you.

You're welcome,

sir.

No thank you, no fruit for me.

Then you can go up to your room.

Good night, mama.

Good night.

You're sure he wrote those poems himself?

It was foolish of him
to write them in class, but

he probably felt bored.

Foolish?

Bored?

I don't understand you.

I think it's quite eccentric

and a strange occupation

for a 14 year old
to write poems.

He arouses his teachers' displeasure

and becomes the laughing stock of his classmates.

He doesn't care about that anymore,
thank God.

They've ridiculed him long enough
because of his name.

Don't feel sad that he's my son too.

He respects your anger.

He himself thinks it's unseemly to write poems.

Is that so?

I should hope so,
for his sake.

After all, we're no gypsies
living in a green wagon.

Here stood his desk

where he kept his first poems to Ingeborg.

Here ...

here was a bedroom

where his father died.

His mother

his beautiful fiery mother
who played the piano and the lute so well,

and who took things as they came,

married again after a year,

a musician, a virtuoso
who had an Italian name,

whom she followed to faraway blue lands.

And excellent collection,
very well arranged.

I thank you very much - adieu.

Good evening,
I shall leave for Copenhagen now.

If I'm not mistaken
there's a boat leaving at 9 p.m.

Please have my luggage brown down
and prepare my bill.

- What is it? Don't you understand?
- Of course I've understood you, sir.

Mr. Seehase, the proprietor,
would like to speak to you.

It's only a formality.

Two words - if you please.

You arrived from Munich?

Yes.

And you're travelling to Copenhagen?

Not precisely Copenhagen,
to Alsgaard, a sea resort.

A sea resort?

Well ...

Your name please?

My name?

Tonio Kröger.

Your profession?

Writer.

Well, that's probably it.

Can you prove that you're not a certain ...

individual called

called ...

Alexander Astor de Beauliens ...

parents unknown,
no fixed abode.

That individual is wanted by the Munich police,
because of fraud and other crimes.

By coincidence he's on his way to Denmark too.

We don't know if he's travelling to a sea resort,
but we know that he's going to Denmark.

Well?

What can I say?

I can believe that.

Show me your documents.

I'm afraid I don't have any.
I left them all in Munich.

And you don't need a passport for Denmark,
as you know.

I'm sorry.

Really? No ID?
That's strange.

This is just a formality.
The constable is only doing his duty.

However, if you could prove your identity somehow ...

You were born in Lübeck?

- I was.
- Do you have any relatives here?

Someone who could vouch for you?

Kröger is a well-known name.
- It is.

Perhaps ...

Let me see what's in your pocket.

Here? Nothing. Letters. Money.
- And what's this?

Please don't touch it. They're galley proofs.
- Galley proofs! I must check them.

She revealed to him the soul of mankind, and his own.
She made him a visionary and showed him the nucleus of ...

the world and the meaning
behind words and actions.

But all he saw was the comic and the misery,
the comic and the misery.

You see, my name is beneath it,
I've written this novella about to be published.

Do you understand?

This must be sufficient, Mr. Petersen.

We cannot detain the gentleman any longer.

He wants to leave town now.

Here you are.

Please excuse the inconvenience, sir.

The constable was only doing is duty.

He was obviously pursuing the wrong track.

- But the ID documents?
- Petersen, I can vouch for the gentleman.

This gentleman is not the fraud you're looking for.

I wish you a pleasant voyage, sir.

The comic and the misery.

The stars.

By God, look at the stars!
[Hamburg accent]

There they stand and glitter.

The whole sky's full of them, by God.

I'm asking you, if you look up there and think about it,
many are said to be a hundred times bigger than the Earth,

How does that make you feel?

We humans have invented the telegraph, the telephone
and many achievements of modern times. Yes, we have.

But when we look up there, we must ...

know and understand

that in fact we're nothing but worms.

Miserable worms,
and nothing else.

Am I right or am I wrong?

Ah yes.

Yes, we two are worms.

Without doubt,
we're in one of those moods

when we say things we'd never admit otherwise.
- That's right, sir.

In such a moment I wish I could be a poet,

being able to describe such a profound experience.

But I'm a merchant,
and there's no need for such skills.

Are you on a business trip?

No, I'm on vacation.

I felt like taking the boat to Copenhagen.

And here I am,
and so far, it's been fine.

But I shouldn't have had that lobster omelet.

You'll see, it'll be a stormy night,
the Captain said so himself.

And all that indigestible food in my stomach,
that's no joke.

You did eat a big dinner.

It's included in the ticket.

People eat big and heavy meals up here.

It makes you lazy and melancholy.

Melancholy?

You must be a stranger to these parts, sir?

Yes, I've come from faraway.

But you're right.

By God, you're right
about the melancholy.

I nearly always feel melancholy.

Especially on such nights as ... as ...

as tonight

when the ...

the stars are up in the sky.

Are you going to Copenhagen too?

No, I'm travelling on to Alsgaard.

That's north of Helsingör.

Yes.

It isn't very gay up there either.

I think you'll be comfortable here.
[Danish]

Good morning.

Good morning.

The barometer's rising again.

We'll have a few days of good weather

??? [Danish]

The temperature is very agreeable.
- That's nice.

Thank you.

Will you give me some of that Wurst?

No, that's not Wurst!
That's Schinken.

Say it: Schinken.
- Schinken. [sausage - ham]

What's going on here?

Guests.

Day tourists and ball guests
from Helsingör.

May God protect us from them!

We won't get any sleep tonight.

There'll be dancing and music,
far into the night.

Their names must be Hans and Inge.

They don't resemble the other ones very much.

It's just that they're of the same light, steely-blue eyed
blond type which, rightly or wrongly,

evokes purity, cheerfulness,

an aloof and plain
virginal brittleness.

Have you finally read Don Carlos, Hans Hansen?

As you promised me at the garden gate?

Don't read it.
I no longer demand it.

I can't stand on my foot.
[Danish]

???

Thank you.

You shouldn't dance anymore, Miss.

I think I've sprained it.
[Danish]

No. 24, to the left.

Tak.

I can't walk on it.

I love to dance, even though I'm not very good.
[Danish]

I don't know whether I tripped over Lars' feet or my own.

She had the same dark eyes,
serious and adoring,

like those of
Magdalena Vermehren,

the attorney's daughter from Lübeck.

Lübeck!

He thought of Inge

and was surprised when he realized

that he no longer was ready to die for her,
like he used to be.

Is Lisaveta Ivanovna down there in Munich
still trying to paint his portrait?

A wonderful thought came to him.

He imagined

she was here,

running with him against the salty wind,

which whirled around the ears
causing a slight dizziness,

a faint bewilderment.

Lisaveta Ivanonva, how do you see me?

How do you wish to see yourself, Tonio Kröger?

Consumed by irony and intellect?

Deserted and paralyzed by knowledge, or ...

reckless,

your conscience faltering,

torn between sanctity and lust?

Don't remind me of the South.

Or considerate and thorough,

correct and puritan,

inclined to melancholy?

A replica of your father?

Well?

Disguise me, dear Lisaveta.

Dress me like someone

whose bourgeois profession is art.

I expect a happy result.

and leave it to the good-natured to believe

that this cheerfulness in appearance
had a cheerful origin.

Paint me like a human being.

Human?

A human being?

How does it go in Don Carlos?

My son, my son,

very prettily do you paint a happiness
you never granted me.

Well?

I don't know.

I'm not a good critic.

Suddenly I cannot judge you anymore.

It seems to be very good.

Aha?

I feel like it's

an intrusion to see you naked.

That sounds like the judgment of a wife.

Stupid,

you mean?

Not at all.

Wouldn't you prefer to continue
writing beautiful letters?

Beautiful letters.

To have a partner far away
who speaks to you,

who doesn't bother you
with his presence?

Who inspires you

because you can lie to him?

Exchanging bits of wisdom,

spreading sentiments

on paper?

I feel sure

about my feeling

of a close invulnerable friendship.

But I'm not invulnerable, Tonio.

I'm a woman.

Tonio's exceptional and excessive thoughts

returned to him.

And he was determined to write to Lisaveta,

to apologize that

that his deepest and most secret love
belonged to the fair and the life-affirming,

the charming, the ordinary.

She mustn't chide this love

because it is good and fruitful.

A longing is in it

and sad envy

and a tiny bit of contempt

and no little innocent bliss.

Engl. subs: Serdar202